You Found Me
by Amarti
Summary: How does a man infamous for hating children become the only person in the Wizarding World to not hate the children of the Death Eaters?  Prequel to "Just to Be."
1. Dark and Deep

_I know, I know, for a person who claimed to be out of plot ideas, I sure am posting a lot! This is the prequel to my story "Just to Be" that I promised to write way back when; if you haven't read JTB, this probably won't make much sense to you, and will completely spoil it, so I highly recommend reading JTB first if you haven't done so already. I started this prequel several months ago, but Severus and I had a couple (many) disagreements about the direction it would take, and I wound up throwing in the towel. Once he agreed to be reasonable, I picked it up again._

_Like my other stories, this is complete. It is a multi-chaptered story but much shorter than JTB. It's primarily a Severus story, but has a few cameos from our other main characters. He is going to be doing a _lot_ of brooding in this story. You have been warned. Rated T for language. Chapter titles are from Robert Frost's poem "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening."_

_This story picks up one year after the events of DH (minus the Epilogue, of course) and five years before the events of JTB. As in canon, Severus has been attacked by Nagini and left for dead. He's been lying in a coma in St. Mungo's for a year. He's been conscious and able to hear everything everyone has said in his presence, but has otherwise been dead to the world._

_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the Rosier kids, and even that is probably questionable._

* * *

><p><em>You found me<br>And I was hiding  
><em>_'Til you came along and showed me where I belong_

_**Kelly Clarkson, "You Found Me"** _

* * *

><p>As he opened his eyes, all Severus could feel was excruciating, agonizing, never-ending <em>pain<em>.

"Fuck!"

Still, it was better than listening to one more moment of droning by the near-constant stream of visitors to his bedside. From those who wished him dead, to those who wished him well, they came. And they came. And they came.

And they spoke.

What he wouldn't have given to be able to tell even one of them to just shut the hell up.

He couldn't decide who had been worse: Albus's portrait offering meaningless platitudes, Potter crying, or Longbottom speaking at all. He hadn't been able to hex any of them. It had been torture.

Now he lay in bed, awake, wiggling his toes for the first time in a year, black eyes blinking in the dim light that was too bright for him. He opened and shut his mouth, moved his jaw from side-to-side, rotated his neck, just because he could. It all took far more effort than he would have expected.

His fingers positively _itched_ for his wand.

He wondered if he could sneak out without anyone noticing. Then he saw the Auror posted at the door. His reflexes would likely be rusty. Probably couldn't get away with it.

That's when he noticed the figure sitting in a chair by his bed, looking at Severus as if he had been expecting him to wake up that day.

"You're awake," rumbled the deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt. "Took your time, didn't you?"

Severus blinked. "Kingsley?" he rasped, his voice scratchy from the snakebite, venom, and months of disuse.

Kingsley nodded. "You may also call me Minister."

"My congratulations," Severus said in a tone that indicated that he was not, indeed, interested in congratulating his fellow Order member on his new position. "How kind of you to drop by. Your timing is impeccable."

"Isn't it just?"

Severus sighed and turned his head to the ceiling, moving slowly because it was so difficult. "What do you want?"

"Well, officially I am here to inform you that the Wizengamot indicted you on charges of pre-meditated murder on the third of May, 1998. The charges are sealed and not known to the public at large."

"What day is it now?"

"Second of May, 1999."

"Only a year? You lot are quicker than I ever gave you credit for. Here I thought bureaucracy was inefficient."

"The law, unfortunately, prohibits me from serving the accused with their charges if they are not conscious."

"Oh, we have those again?"

"Indeed we do."

"Joke's on you, then. I could hear everyone the entire time."

"Alas, the Healers told me otherwise."

"I taught them. Dunderheads, all."

"That sounds like a slur on your teaching ability, Severus."

"One cannot squeeze blood from a turnip," Severus said. It felt good to banter people again, regardless of the subject matter. He and Kingsley had never been close, but the relationship had been cordial enough. "If you waited a year to cart me off to Azkaban, I will merely ask you to hand me my wand so that I can just finish myself off and save us both a lot of time and bother."

Kingsley scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not, I'm being efficient. Ridiculous would be agreeing to this farce, appearing before your little show trial, and then being sent to the Dementors to be Kissed and placed in another coma, one from which I have no hope of awakening. I assure you, my way is better, as it is with all things."

"Regardless," Kingsley said. "I am also unofficially here to inform you that I have a proposition for you that would eliminate all charges against you."

"Just give me my wand."

"I'm afraid that I cannot give an accused his wand. He might escape."

"I'll throw myself out the window."

"You plan to cross the room and climb out the window on leg muscles that have atrophied after a year of disuse? That I'd like to see."

Severus glared and then lay still for a few moments, considering. The bedclothes were thin enough that he could rip them and hang himself from the headboard, but even the smallest motions were taxing, and he couldn't lift his head or his hands. Resigned, he abided by one of the oldest codes of Slytherin House: know when you are beaten. "I'm listening."

"I need to ask a favour of you. If you complete it, I will ensure that the charges are dropped, you will receive the compensation paid to all Order members for their trouble in the war, your very own Order of Merlin, First Class, all due respect and privileges given to the heroes of the war, and—best of all—you will never have to see me again."

"The task?"

"I need you to dispose of Voldemort's body."

Severus turned his head so fast he could feel the bones in his neck cracking. "I hope I misheard you."

"You did not."

"Absolutely not."

"Don't dismiss my offer right away, Severus."

"I will. Death would be preferable to that. Don't you have Aurors or Unspeakables for this sort of thing?"

"They all refused."

"They _refused_? They don't get to _refuse_. You're the bloody Minister—order them to do it. It's their damn job."

"I appreciate that. Unfortunately, I cannot afford to lose all my Aurors or Unspeakables, so when they unanimously refused, I was left with no choice but to acquiesce."

"Vanish the damn thing yourself."

"I can't just Vanish it."

"Why not?"

"I tried. It doesn't work. Too much Dark Magic, something about the Horcruxes."

Academically, that intrigued Severus and he wanted to hear more, but remembered himself and the situation. He would have to hold his curiosity at bay. "Transfigure him into something. Burn him. Aim a _Reducto_ at him. There is no shortage of methods at your disposal. Do it yourself, _Minister_," he sneered. "Consider it a perk of your position."

"No. I want it to be you. It has to be you."

"Why?"

"I tried it, all of it, I couldn't hit the body with anything. Not with my hands, not with my wand, nothing. Harry Potter's curse worked because Voldemort's wand was sworn to obey him and because of the link they had shared. Beyond that, I have not been able to touch him, get near him, do anything to him. I think the Dark Mark might allow you to destroy him. I think you need some sort of dark link with him to be able to do it."

"So get one of the Death Eaters who are no doubt rotting in Azkaban as we speak."

"There are none to ask."

Severus's eyes widened and then narrowed in understanding. "I see," he said flatly.

"The Malfoys are the only ones not in Azkaban—"

"_What?_" Severus was apoplectic. He tried to sit up but couldn't, and settled for merely glaring at the ceiling. "You let them weasel out of trouble _again_? Kingsley! You're supposed to be smarter than this."

"Do you think I didn't try? Malfoy packed the Wizengamot between wars. They voted in favour of clearing them of all charges. If I start overturning acquittals and violate double jeopardy prohibitions, I lose all credibility."

"What a great loss that would be," Severus said sarcastically. "So get them to do it if they owe you their freedom so badly."

"We can't find the Malfoys."

"What do you mean, you can't find them? How do you lose the Malfoys?"

"The Ministry seized their Gringotts vault, home, and possessions to pay for war reparations. They disappeared shortly thereafter."

"So you clear them of all charges, despite them being willing, eager, and very guilty Death Eaters, and then allow them to slip through the cracks? I guess nothing really changes in our world."

"Change takes time, Severus, you know that."

A long time passed without either man speaking. Finally Severus broke the silence.

"If," he began, emphasizing the word, "_If_ I agree to do this, I have your word that I will be left alone?"

Kingsley nodded.

"And I can be assured that there will be no Aurors or Unspeakables or any of your people ever coming after me?"

Kingsley nodded.

"And if I were to do this, where might I find the body?"

"Azkaban."

Severus paled. "No. No deal."

"Severus—"

"_No_. _Never_ again."

"I can guarantee that you will be given wide berth by everyone and every_thing_," he emphasized the last syllable, "whilst you do what must be done."

"You can't promise to control Dementors. No one can."

"I can."

"I don't believe you."

"I wouldn't lie to you, Severus. I'm not in the business of manipulating or lying to fellow Order members."

Severus closed his eyes and shook his head. "Everybody lies."

"Perhaps, but not to you. You always know when somebody is lying."

Severus shook his head. "Occlumency and Legilimency skills are like swords—they must be sharpened regularly if they are to be of any use. For a year now I have been unable to practice either, and I'm not even taking into account the effect the venom or the coma might have had on my mental faculties. They are likely broken beyond repair."

"I am not Dumbledore, Severus," Kingsley said. "I am not here to break you or manipulate you or use you. I have a genuine problem, one I suspect only you can solve, and I am prepared to pay handsomely for it. I have no ulterior motive."

Severus said nothing for a long time, considering and weighing all of his options. "May I have twenty-four hours to consider?"

Kingsley nodded. "Of course. I will be back tomorrow. Do try to avoid trying to kill yourself. I'll have to hold a press conference to say nice things about you, and I do hate those." He got up to leave. "I truly am glad to see that you are back among us, Severus. You have been missed."

"Even without my Legilimency skills, Kingsley, I could tell that was a lie."

Kingsley merely shook his head and walked out the door. Severus lay still, absorbing the silence around him.

He didn't need twenty-four hours. He knew what his answer would be.

* * *

><p>Even after weeks of Magical physical therapy, Severus still felt weak and uneven on his feet. Especially in this horrible place.<p>

Kingsley had been true to his word about keeping the Dementors away, but it did little to assuage the dark, bubbling dread in the pit of Severus's stomach.

The most disturbing thing about the screaming was that he couldn't be sure if it was real or echoing in his own head from his last stay here.

He was told that the body could be found in the very last cell in the block that had come to be known as Death Row—the row of cells housing Death Eaters. According to Kingsley, all of them had already been Kissed, most within days of the Dark Lord's defeat.

It was better than what most of them deserved.

He kept his face fixed forward, resolutely refusing to look at the near-lifeless bodies in the cells.

The moaning stopped him in his tracks. Involuntarily, he looked toward the source of the noise. It was a man. He was slumped against the iron bars, his head lolling back and forth, as if his neck wasn't strong enough to support the weight. Severus, not knowing what made him do it, knelt at the man's side, and the only indication he gave in recognition was a sharp intake of breath.

Evan Rosier.

He had been Kissed, Severus was certain of it. Yet, he was still somewhat… alert. Somewhat… present.

He knew, in theory, people could be incompletely Kissed. It was thought to be impossible; a Dementor's thirst for happy memories was never sated. It consumed them, drove them to multiply in hopes of assuaging the terrible, terrible hunger. The idea of a Dementor failing to extract every last drop of a person's soul was inconceivable.

Rosier lolled once again and he looked Severus square in the eye.

Severus had never much liked Evan Rosier. Thought being Kissed was too good for him. Death was too good for him. _Everything_ was too good for him.

And yet he could not move as the man, the man who should have no soul left in his body and no ability see or communicate or recognize others, stared into his eyes beseechingly.

Evan Rosier was in custody because of Severus. On his way to meet Voldemort in the boathouse, he had stunned him, bound him in ropes, and left him hanging from a tree in the Forbidden Forest for the Aurors or the Order to find.

His final gift to them before he was to die.

Suddenly he felt a cold, bony hand grasp him tightly on the wrist. He jerked violently, certain it was a Dementor, but relented when he realized it was Rosier gripping him so tightly it was sure to leave a mark. He pulled Severus close to him, his dark, blood-shot eyes staring into Severus's. He felt something small and cold being pressed into his palm.

"Take… it…" Rosier rasped. "Take… it."

Severus shuddered at the words and shook his head vigorously, trying to pull away. _Too soon to think about all of that._

Cold fingers closed Severus's hand around the object, whatever it was. He tried to open his hand—contraband of any sort would likely land him in here regardless of his deal with Kingsley—but to no avail. The skeletal hand of Evan Rosier held it shut.

"Take… it… to… them."

_Them?_ Severus's brow furrowed before he remembered vaguely that Rosier was a father. Had a whole family—wife, children, probably even a dog. He hadn't considered it at the time; such thoughts had no place on a battlefield. His wife had not been a Death Eater. The bottom dropped out of Severus's stomach as he saw Rosier's wife Vivienne slumped against the stone wall, eyes closed, not moving or reacting to anything around her. He could see her pale, unmarked forearms facing up.

So being married to a Death Eater was now a crime, too.

_And yet the Malfoys are free!_

_And yet _you_ are free_, sneered a familiar voice inside his head.

_Ah_, Severus thought at the sound of the Voice, the embodiment of all his self-loathing and self-doubt. The one he could never help but listen to. _I remember you_.

Rosier, having decided he had made his point, fell back against the bars and shut his eyes. The effort had cost him his last bit of energy. Severus backed away slowly, still gripping tightly the object in his palm.

He pocketed it without looking at it, hoping he wouldn't be searched on the way out.

With a shudder, he approached the small, windowless room harbouring… _it_. _Him_. The sound of the heavy steel door it clanging echoed long after it had slammed shut. In the absence of his Occlumency shields, Severus controlled his breathing as best he could. It would not do to panic now. Even though the last time he had been this close to the Dark Lord, he was dying, dying for nothing, he would not break down. He would do what he had been asked to do.

And then he would finally, _finally_, be free.

He would have loved to just vanish the damn thing, but he chose not to. He wanted to see this body destroyed. Didn't want to think of it existing in some other plane or dimension. He wanted to break it, to burn it, to crush it, to shred it, to utterly eliminate it. Ruin it beyond recognition so that no one seeking it out—and there _would_ be those who would seek it out—would be able to identify it, or use it, or steal any piece of him.

The Dark Lord lay limp, stretched out across a flat stone slab. He lay as if in state, waiting for mourners to walk past him and pay their respects.

That would never happen once Severus was through with him.

He concentrated for a moment. Better do it quickly, before he lost his nerve. Before the hell of Azkaban descended fully upon him and reduced him to a cowering mess. He no longer had his Occlumency shields to protect him; it was a miracle he'd lasted this long without some sort of breakdown.

He wondered for a moment if he was too damaged to even have the capacity to break down. How could you break something that wasn't even whole in the first place? You couldn't break something already broken.

And Severus Snape was nothing if not broken.

He calmed himself with deep, controlled breaths and screwed his eyes tightly shut in concentration. Opening them, he allowed himself one last look at the Dark Lord—the man he thought would be his saviour, his ticket out of helplessness and hopelessness. The figure to whom he had sworn fealty and eternal service. The figure he'd betrayed, whom he'd actively sought to destroy for the better part of two decades.

Now, Severus was granted the chance to be the one to finally destroy him.

He felt his lip twitch into a twisted grin. He might as well enjoy himself.

"_Reducto!"_

When all that was left of the Dark Lord was ashes, he piled them on the stone slab with his wand. After the briefest hesitation, he gathered a handful of the remains in his hand, letting it slip through his fingers and let it slip back down, a silent snowfall of ash.

_Ashes to ashes…_

Taking a step back, he twirled his wand in a complicated pattern. Each pass of the wand through the pattern split each piece of ash in two, making the particles smaller and smaller with every pass. Soon the Dark Lord was nothing more than a pile of fine dust. The pile grew smaller and smaller as the air grew thicker and thicker with his remains, floating about in small, fine pieces lighter than air. Once Severus could no longer physically see the particles—though he could feel and sense and smell and almost taste them in the back of his throat—he whipped his wand swiftly in a circle, gathering all of it into a ball of material so fine it could hardly be seen. With one last flick, the ball of dust burst into flames and disappeared, leaving behind naught but a puff of smoke.

_...Dust to dust._

The Dark Lord was gone.

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><p><em>Next chapter will be up next week.<em>


	2. Promises to Keep

_Remember all that brooding I warned you about?_

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><p>"You alright?"<p>

Hermione looked over her shoulder at the earnest boy behind her. Ron. The boy she had traveled with to hell and back, the one who had seen her at her best and worst, the boy who knew her better than just about anyone else on the planet.

The one she was supposed to love.

The one everyone expected her to marry.

His arm ran up and down her hip tentatively. She'd been withdrawn lately, and she knew that he knew, dense as he could be to this sort of thing. He'd truly made an effort to be more sensitive, more attuned to her moods and needs. It had been a commendable effort on his part.

Which is what made this all the more difficult to admit to herself.

She could not be with him any longer. She couldn't trust him the way she needed to. Not after what happened in the war. Not after that night.

She knew that it would end. Have to end. They could never be happy this way.

"Hermione?" He placed a kiss to her shoulder.

She sighed and snuggled closer to him, feeling him wrap an arm around her torso and pull her back against his chest. She placed her hand over his and felt him relax.

This could not continue forever.

But he was warm and safe and attentive and affectionate and _here_. He was real. He was better than the alternative.

Never mind that she otherwise felt completely numb, no matter how softly he kissed her, or how intimately he touched her, or how closely he held her. Numb was better than painful.

She would think about it another day.

* * *

><p>Like most men who have lived a lifetime of incarceration, Severus found himself utterly overwhelmed by his freedom.<p>

It was odd, not having a Master to answer to. To have to make his own decisions again. To set his own schedule. To have the freedom to dream again.

If only he had some dreams left.

He paced relentlessly yet slowly through his childhood home, scarcely aware that he was doing so. Pacing had always helped him think. Something about constant movement kept his mind constantly moving. It helped him focus. He needed focus. He was trying to build up his Occlumency shields again.

It wasn't going well. His mental organisation and visualisation were fine; a year spent with nothing to do but think had ensured that. But his ability to block feelings, bury things, project false images… that would take some practise and some time. It idly occurred to him that he really didn't need the shields anymore, not the way he had during and between wars, but he shook the thought away. His shields were like his security blanket; he'd had them forever, they'd given him comfort and saved his life more times than he could count. He wanted them back. It was just going to take time to get back to where he had been again. That was all.

He supposed he had nothing but time now. Time and no idea what to do with it. Time and a pile of gold he had no idea how to spend. The Ministry had been very generous in its compensation to Order of the Phoenix members; Severus had been paid a bonus for the severity of his injuries. He didn't want it; Kingsley didn't care.

Around three in the morning his third night home, he finally examined the object that Rosier had desperately pressed into his hands. He hadn't looked at it, hadn't wanted to. Had wanted to chuck the damn thing into the North Sea as soon as he left the building, but stopped himself. Even he wasn't so cruel as to not honour a dying man's last wish.

He unwrapped the small rag wrapped around it to find that it was not one object but three. Three small lockets, each without a chain. He opened each one in turn to find two wizarding photographs inside of each—on the left of each one was a photograph of Evan Rosier and his wife, Vivienne. The other side each held a photograph of a small child. Each one was different. Though he had never met Rosier's children, he assumed that these were them. Every so often, the children would cross into the photograph of their parents to embrace them. Clearly, there had been a lot of love in this family.

They were… young. Very young. The photographs were recent, and he and Rosier was about the same age. Severus considered for a moment. None of the Rosiers had been his students at Hogwarts. A year had passed since the Dark Lord fell. That would make his oldest child eleven at the most, probably even younger than that. And there were three of them. All without parents now.

Severus swallowed thickly at the thought. Such things affected him now, without his shields present to protect him. He hated it. He hated feeling pain about things he couldn't control, things that weren't his fault, things he couldn't change. Absolutely hated it. Occlumency had shielded him from that for most of his life. Without it, he would not have lasted three days as a spy, or six years as Potter's teacher, or seventeen years with Lily's blood on his hands. He could never have lived with himself and the things he had to witness, to do, or to pretend to agree with on a daily basis.

Knowing that he would never be able to sleep until he did something about this, he conjured three small chains and looped them through each of the lockets. He would deliver them to their rightful owners soon. He had a feeling he knew where they had ended up. It wouldn't be pleasant to visit there. It wouldn't be pleasant to see them. He would feel it, every bit of it.

He was getting those damn shields back up if it killed him.

* * *

><p>Severus found that an Order of Merlin was rather like an all-access pass: flash it, and he was admitted to areas of the Wizarding World that mere mortals would never be able to see.<p>

Like the bowels of the Ministry's home for war orphans.

Members of the public were generally not allowed inside the orphanage; only relatives or Ministry officials. Severus had been fully prepared to use a wandless Confundus charm to get in, if he had to; though he was out of practise, it wouldn't be any trouble on the weak-minded, and the shrewish woman with cat-eye glasses who ran this place seemed to be quite susceptible. Confundus charms seldom worked on strong-minded people to begin with, anyway. But it hadn't come to that—all he had to do was show his Ministry accolade and he was told to "take all the time he wished" with them. She also told him to, "do whatever he wished" while down there. He shook his head. Whatever _that_ meant.

He steadied his breathing as he made his way downstairs. Contrary to what every wizard under thirty no doubt thought, Severus did not actually hate children per se. What he hated was stupidity. He simply could not abide stupidity. As stupidity was a common affliction among both children and adults, he had little choice but to hate most children and most adults. Severus was simply almost always the smartest person in the room; ergo, he hated everyone else in the room. He could count on one hand the number of students who hadn't completely disappointed him. Potter's friend Granger had probably been the smartest he'd ever taught, but she'd annoyed the hell out of him.

Severus shook his head. His thoughts were more scattered than he was used to without his Occlumency shields, and he found himself having to concentrate harder in order to focus. He could hear the sounds of wailing from here, not unlike the sounds of Azkaban. The further he went underground, the colder it was. This place was like a prison. A prison for children.

_Focus, Severus. Get in, deliver the goods, get out, get on with your life._

* * *

><p>Nearly two decades as Head of House for Hogwarts' least-popular students had taught him how to handle every type of unruly, distraught, unhappy, abused, neglected, overworked, unloved, spoiled, prejudiced, paranoid, depressed, hyperactive, coddled, babied, misanthropic or popular child.<p>

He was completely unprepared for what he found when he reached the common room.

There had to be at least two-dozen children down here, maybe even three dozen. In Severus's experience, that many children gathered in one place at one time without supervision was nothing short of chaos, a cacophony of energy and noise and mischief. He had expected as much prior to his arrival in here. Instead it was… quiet.

Far, far too quiet.

They all sat in the room, some in the chairs or sofas, far too many than was normal simply on the floor or against the wall. Some were softly weeping, others sitting there catatonically, or silently rocking back and forth.

The most striking aspect of it was the sheer, unadulterated terror in their eyes as each one of them took him in.

He looked down at himself. He was dressed in the severe black that had come to be his trademark. His hair had grown even longer during his year of convalescence and hung in a lank curtain down his back and around his face. He was still recovering from a year of lying flat, so he was walking a bit slower than he would have otherwise. All in all, he conceded that he probably looked a little intimidating. That had been by design—intended to command the attention and obedience (if not respect) of children. But as much as he had been the "scary" teacher at Hogwarts, he had never actually caused children to shake and weep in terror. Not that he was aware of, anyway.

Something horrible had happened to them.

He glanced around as he looked for the Rosier offspring, but was distracted—as they were—by the sound of footsteps. Kingsley, as part of their deal, had agreed to keep his whereabouts quiet. It wouldn't do to get caught down here by anyone. It wasn't the annoying click-click of heels he'd grown to associate with Dolores Umbridge and the woman upstairs who ran this place. The footsteps were heavy. It was a grown man. Judging by the tread, he was eager to get down here. _Perhaps a relative?_

Something told Severus that he shouldn't pin his hopes on that.

* * *

><p>When it was over, more than ever, he hated being right.<p>

At least, he'd discovered, his reflexes were still quick. Not as quick as they had been before his convalescence, but sharper than the average Wizard's. At least he hadn't killed the man. Just hurt him. And Obliviated him. He'd come to later on. Feeling sore. Very, very sore.

Severus may have been an unfeeling, unemotional, uncaring, unsupportive, unhealthy man in every sense of the word, but not even he could stand idly by and watch innocent children be abused by grown men.

_Not anymore_, the voice whispered.

He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes at the thought. No, he had not always had the freedom to stand by his convictions. Many times he'd had to stand by and watch others—these children's parents, in fact—commit acts of unspeakable horror upon innocents of all ages. It had taken every ounce of self-discipline and every shred of Occlumency to keep himself from vomiting while it happened.

Not anymore.

It was wrong then, and it was wrong now. It was wrong that these children should be so exposed. That they should have no one really looking out for them.

It was wrong that their parents had been killed or Kissed and they were left to face the angry world alone. Their parents' victims—like the man who had met the business end of Severus's wand—clearly took out their anger and frustration on them. And apparently, it was open season on them. The Glastonbury woman did not appear to be the least concerned about it.

The way the children had reacted, this man had clearly not been the first.

Nor, Severus realised, would he be the last.

The looks on the faces of the Rosier siblings when he'd handed over the lockets… they haunted him. They hadn't reacted to him, hadn't looked at the objects, hadn't taken them. He just left them there in hopes that they would do it privately after he'd left.

Severus had seen this behaviour before, back when he was a teacher. Hell, he'd done it himself as a child. It was the behaviour of a child who did not expect to keep the item. Who knew it would be taken away. Who was resigned to his possessions being stolen, no matter their value. Who had completely lost hope and faith in the world.

* * *

><p>Severus Apparated to the canal so that he could collect his thoughts while walking home. He liked walking alone at night. It was quiet, and relatively solitary and safe, and when he looked up, he could sometimes see the stars. They were never as bright or beautiful as they were when viewed from Hogwarts, but he had already decided never to go up on the Astronomy Tower again. For any reason. The veiled view from his hometown would have to do.<p>

He had kept his promise to Kingsley. He had kept his promise to Rosier. He had kept his promises to Dumbledore and Potter and Lily.

There were no more promises to keep.

He was lost.

He walked the lonely, desolate roads of Cokeworth. Dirty river, cracked pavement, dilapidated and empty homes. The Muggle world had left this place behind. The Wizarding world had left Severus behind.

How fitting that he still lived here.

He reached his home and stood in the sitting room. He'd done all he could to make this place his own in the twenty years since his parents' murders. He'd spent as little time here as he could, staying at Hogwarts for all school holidays except for the summer, when no teachers were allowed to stay behind. Just as he had as a child.

As much as he'd tried to erase the vestiges of the Tobias and Eileen years, the house still reminded him of them. He had to lower his head when reaching the fourth step to avoid the beam overhead, just as his father had. The light in the kitchen made his skin look yellow, just as it had his mother's. He had his mother's eyes and his father's nose, his father's build and his mother's hair. He had his mother's cowardice and his father's temper.

There was so much of them in him. No wonder he was so fucked up.

He entered the bathroom at the top of the stairs and looked at himself—really looked at himself—for the first time since awakening. Black eyes. Black hair. Black robes. White skin. It occurred to him that he would look the same in black and white as he did in color. The black drained him. The his hair was so fine that it needed daily washing to avoid becoming greasy, and the length didn't help matters. His eyes were old and tired. He looked much older than his thirty-nine years.

The man in the mirror was the man he had been for his entire adult life, born out of necessity and fear—fear of others coming too close. It was a look meant to intimidate and radiate power and presence.

He sighed, grasping the edge of the sink, hanging his head. Was this the man he wanted to be anymore?

_No_. The realization startled him. _No, this is not the man I want to be anymore_. He didn't know who he wanted to be instead, but not this. And now there was no reason to stay like this.

Severus took his wand in his hand and Vanished his clothing with naught but a flick. He stood there, nude. He never looked at his naked body if he could help it; he changed in the dark and showered quickly, not looking down any more than necessary. He took stock. He was thin, but not too thin; the Healers at St. Mungo's had seen to that. He'd easily put on a stone. His skin had lost the sickly yellow pallor that had plagued him for most of his teaching years. He would have to cut back on drinking if he was to avoid that again. A year without a drink and he didn't miss it as much as he'd thought he would. Silvery scars criss-crossed his torso, but they stood out less than they had in the past. Was it due to the weight gain? The Healers? Or had it all been in his head?

He leaned in and examined the newest scars, the jagged lines on his neck. They were deep and thick and ropey. Not exactly pleasant to look at, but not exactly horrible, either. They were a reminder of what he'd been through. That he had lived.

He looked at his left forearm. The Dark Mark was more or less gone, faded into a twisted scar of silvery skin that outlined where the skull and snake had once been. It would never burn again. Hesitating for only a moment, he ran his fingers over it. He had never touched it when it was live. He felt… nothing. No touch of Dark magic, no pain, no burning sensation. No fear. It was over, truly over.

It was liberating to stand here, no longer fearing his own reflection the way he had for most of his life. It was not the reflection he wanted, but he could live with it. He was literally comfortable in his own skin.

Severus ran a hand through his lank hair. He'd had this same style his entire life, never really bothered to cut it. Kept it just short enough to keep from falling into a cauldron. Just long enough to hide his face if he needed to.

Was this a shield he still needed?

Raising his wand again, he grabbed a strand of hair and closed his eyes at the faint snipping sound, like that of a pair of scissors. He opened his left eye, squinting, and held the lock of hair in his hand, examining it. Then at his reflection.

_The world didn't end_.

He repeated the process again and again until the sink was full of oily strands of hair. He examined his new reflection. It looked… kind of all right. It was a bit uneven and flared out at odd angles and was positively jarring after thirty-nine years of looking at the same style, but he thought he could live with it. He looked younger, somehow, and his nose was even less pronounced. His eyes seemed bigger. His face was no longer hidden, and he no longer had the option, but… he was alright with that.

Running his fingers through the short strands, it felt alien. He was used to long strands gliding between his fingers, and now it was abruptly cut off. That would take some getting used to. Then again, so would a lot of things in this new world.

Having shed his old physical trappings, he trudged back to his room, still nude. He never walked around his house naked, even though he was always alone here. No one would see him. He still could never relax enough to do it. Not anymore.

He perched on the edge of his bed, looking at the wall and the peeling wallpaper that he'd never bothered to repair. It reminded him of the walls of the Orphanage he had seen earlier that day, the neglectful air about the place. The violence he'd seen in the man's eyes. The horrible combination of fear and resignation in the faces of those children.

In his earlier life, Severus would have shut it away. He had done so when he had raised his wand to Dumbledore on the Astronomy Tower. He had done so when his colleague of many years, Charity Burbage, had died screaming his name, begging him to save her. He had done so when his position as Headmaster had required him to do unspeakable things to his students, though admittedly less horrible than what would have happened to them had anyone else been there.

In the past, blocking out such horrible things was easy. Occlumency provided both a shield and a sword for him: blocking out unpleasant things, and giving him the peace of mind to do unpleasant things.

Tonight, with his shields still in disarray and his mind unguarded, he couldn't stop thinking about what he'd seen down there.

He also couldn't stop thinking about the fact that he was personally responsible for many of their parents' downfalls. Well, maybe not completely. They had made their own choices in life, same as he had. They had all made the same poor decision. They had all chosen their own paths afterward. Only one other Wizard had made the same difficult, dangerous choice as Severus, and that Wizard had not lived longer than a week.

Their parents were horrible, foul creatures that deserved everything that came to them.

But their children, effectively locked in a dungeon, easy meat for any predator who came their way… he couldn't block that out. He really, really wanted to. Wanted to pack it all in a box and bury it deep into forgotten corners of his mind. He wanted nothing more than to be able to ignore and forget and feel nothing. He had mastered this skill after losing Lily, after killing Albus. He could do it again. He _had_ to do it again.

His soul was already destroyed beyond repair. What was one more sin on top of the countless others he had committed?

But found he couldn't.

His vision blurred as he thought of the terror he had seen, the utter subjugation. The resignation to their fate. He felt a warm trail of liquid on his right cheek, stopping to pool in a premature wrinkle.

Was he fucking _crying_?

Damnit, this was pathetic. If this—_this!_—was upsetting him enough for it to physically manifest, the weight of everything he'd seen and done in his life, all the pain and suffering and loneliness and heartache and bitterness, would consume him. He would collapse under the weight of it.

He had to rebuild. Starting tonight.

He sighed and tried to clear his mind. Daily meditation was the first step. Elementary mental discipline, to be sure, but he would have to crawl before he could walk. Just like all the other mere mortals in this world.

The next step would be focus, or fixation, but he would not get bogged down in semantics. Once he had learned to calm and control his mind, he would refine the technique for blocking out unpleasant things through a single-minded focus on something. In the past, it had been teaching. He had thrown himself into his profession wholeheartedly in order to block out the rest of the world. Really, he had done this his whole life—he'd focused on adapting potions recipes with the same fervor he had teaching. If he had a project, a profession, an opus, he had a shot at making this work.

But what to do now? He was no longer a teacher. He had reached the limits of what he was capable of with potions. He supposed he could apply himself more and try to go above and beyond what was likely possible—for that is how discoveries are made—but the idea was oddly unappealing to him. It would involve too much rote memorization, too many elementary steps for it to completely consume his attention. Potions were out. And he really, truly, hated most people, so seeking employment elsewhere was out as well.

He thought back to what he'd seen in the Orphanage that morning…

Now _that_ was a problem, one he didn't immediately know how to solve and that would require lots of creativity and tenacity on his part. That would not involve seeing other people. True, it did involve children, but he didn't especially hate children, contrary to popular belief. He just hated stupidity, and unfortunately children, like most adults, suffered from the ailment.

Plus he might also do some good for them. Being the consummate Slytherin, that was merely incidental to his purpose. Or so he told himself.

He also owed them. That was something his Slytherin mind could accept. He wouldn't change his actions with respect to undermining and exposing active Death Eaters, and he didn't regret it. He just hadn't thought of all the consequences of his actions.

Their lives had been taken away because of him. He owed it to them to give them back, or at least attempt it.

_You don't owe them anything_, the Voice told him. _You may have killed their parents in cold blood-or as good as killed them-and you may be the reason they are down there, but you don't owe them anything._

He sighed and stared at his reflection in the dirty bedroom window, reflecting the ugly orange light from the street.

_Yes_, he thought. _Yes, I do_.

* * *

><p><em>Once you lose those shields, it all goes to hell.<em>


	3. To Ask if There is Some Mistake

_True story: Every time I upload a new chapter of this story, FFN crashes. Here goes nothing._

_Major "Just to Be" spoilers in this chapter. Also lots and lots of angst. _

* * *

><p>Harry Potter couldn't stop his leg from shaking.<p>

It had been four hours since Ginny left to see her mother. Three hours and forty-seven minutes since his last shot of crystal meth. Two hours and seventeen minutes since his last drink. One hour and forty-five minutes since his last hit of cocaine.

The leg wouldn't stop shaking. It craved more. He craved more. Always more.

He knew he was a disgrace for this. He knew that it was unfair to Ginny, who blissfully was unaware of his problem (as far as he knew). He knew that as Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, he should not be living like this. Living a lie. Living like a junkie.

But he couldn't stop. The drugs and alcohol helped him forget. And after all he had seen and done and heard and learnt in the past few years… he needed to forget. He couldn't do Occlumency for shite. The Auror Office was no help in that respect; they regarded memory charms and the like as not worth the effort. There was no one to talk to about it who could handle it. Ginny and Ron were still cut up about Fred's death and Molly's problems. Hermione… she was so withdrawn he hardly recognised her. She seemed to be floating along in life, not really working toward anything. Going along to get along.

None of them needed to be burdened with his problem. It was entirely self-created. It was up to him to dig out of this mess he called a life and get back on track. Focus on his job. Focus on his fiancée. Focus on becoming the man he knew he could and should be.

One hit a day had been enough to keep himself calm for months. But today the toxic cocktail of narcotics and alcohol wasn't enough.

It was a problem. He knew he needed help.

But he would not ask for it. He would do it on his own.

His leg twitched again. Raising his wand, Harry Summoned a bottle of alcohol and took a deep, long swig. He'd Freshen himself before Ginny came home. He didn't want her to see him like this. Just a few more sips and he'd be okay again, he just knew it. Hopefully it would be enough to get him through the rest of the day.

Hopefully.

* * *

><p>"You want to teach… <em>them<em>?"

Glastonbury's penciled-in eyebrows rose to touch the top of her broad, shiny forehead. Severus gave her one of his trademark barely-perceptible nods. A small action that conveyed far more gravity and authority than one might expect.

"But… I don't understand…"

"Hogwarts will not have me back," he explained, his tone conveying far more patience than he actually had for this woman. "And I find I am ill-qualified for any other position. Those for which I would be qualified… well, employers tend to be hesitant about me due to my background. I have heard that you have a hard time attracting staff. Besides,"—he fought to keep his voice steady as he said this last part—"I have unfinished business with these children."

Glastonbury's face softened in understanding. "Ah, I see," she said. "Well, Mr. Snape, perhaps you and I can help each other out."

"Indeed," he said, smirking like a cat.

"The Ministry is always after me to find staff for the long-term residents, and their meddling is rather bothersome."

"So I can imagine."

"If I could tell them that I'd found a full-time staff member, I could get them off my back and return to the autonomy that I feel best serves this institution."

"It sounds like we could help each other out, then." She narrowed her eyes at him through her cat-eye glasses. "I presume you have some preconditions?"

His smirk grew. "A few."

* * *

><p>Severus had never been more knackered in his life.<p>

And it was only day three.

The screaming. The crying. The refusal to eat. The inability to speak. The lack of things to give them to eat. The lack of attention they gave to him regardless of what he tried to teach them. It would have annoyed him in another context, but it had not taken him long to understand that the children didn't pay attention to him because they couldn't pay attention to him, at least not for more than a few seconds.

Each one had a glassy-eyed look that shut the world out.

What horrors had they seen whilst in that place?

They wouldn't say.

Glastonbury was due to bring in the medical records tomorrow. He knew it wouldn't be pretty.

* * *

><p>After the first month, he wondered why he bothered.<p>

He hadn't been able to get through to a one of them. Not a single one. They wouldn't meet his eyes, wouldn't stop cowering in fear when he approached, wouldn't trust him.

Severus was fairly certain they weren't getting _worse_, but they also weren't getting better.

He tried wearing different clothing. Black seemed to frighten them. Reminded them of their parents' Death Eater robes, no doubt. But to no avail. They still trembled in terror whenever he got near to any of them.

He couldn't be there every hour of every day. He was often sent to his office to complete tedious paperwork that Glastonbury insisted be done on time or she would terminate his contract. So he would do it. But it did not escape his notice that someone else (he couldn't tell who, exactly) went into the room with them while he was gone.

His suspicions were raised, but he couldn't prove that anything bad was happening. If it was, the children weren't talking.

* * *

><p>At night, he thought about Lily. He thought about Lily a lot.<p>

He'd had a lot of time to meditate about her during his convalescence. About how things had ended between them. About how empty his life had felt without her, and how taking up her son's safety as his Cause in life had been the only thing that gave him meaning. About how, when he lay dying, looking into Potter's eyes, he'd prayed that he'd done enough to make it all up to her.

He'd wanted to give her everything. In many ways, he had.

At the same time, he'd had a lot of time to reflect on what their relationship had been and what it hadn't been. It had been an intense love for him, an all-consuming thought. His greatest triumph and greatest regret. But for her... he had just been a teenage sweetheart. One of several. But still he had given her everything. He had wanted to, and he did not regret it. He would do it all over again.

Now he had nothing left to give her. It would have to be enough.

He could put her to rest now. He'd never stop loving her, _never_, but he supposed he could stop mourning her the way he had for nearly twenty years. He could put away her emblem as his reason for living. He could do one final thing for her: let her rest in peace.

He wondered if he'd ever find love again.

He mentally scoffed at the thought. Him, find love? No woman would want him. Very few had ever wanted him in a sexual sense in his life, and he wasn't going to hold out hope for more. He'd had one purely carnal encounter in his life, and he'd hated every second of it. It had made him feel empty and unfulfilled. He didn't want to admit that he was nauseatingly sentimental, but bedding a stranger for the the sake of anonymous coupling to assuage a need wasn't high on the list of life's pleasures for him. Perhaps it was because his first time had been with someone he truly loved, and so anything less had been a disappointment. After Lily there had been a couple women here and there whom he'd seen rather casually. Not quite relationships, but not quite purely physical arrangements, either.

And then there had been Narcissa.

Despite his years of association with Lucius, he hadn't known Narcissa terribly well. She was quiet and aloof and, frankly, cold. They'd exchanged pleasantries in social situations, but he didn't really know her as a person. Not until that day she'd come with her sister to his home and begged him to save her son's life. He hadn't known that she even knew where he lived. He really hated the idea that Bellatrix knew where he lived.

He'd banished Wormtail into the little room behind the bookcase, Stunned him, cast a silencing charm, and tried to pretend as much as possible that he was alone in his home. He always Obliviated him afterward so that the Dark Lord would not get suspicious.

She'd come back later that evening, alone. He'd been drinking more and more as the day went on and the implications of what he'd agreed to do had begun to sink in. She stood there, eyes red, hair disheveled and wet from the rain, standing on his doorstep.

They had been vulnerable and frightened and perilously close to the edge.

Severus was not raised to believe it acceptable to touch another man's wife. He found he didn't care. She was there, and she knew, and she sought him out, and her husband was in Azkaban, and her son had received a death sentence, and he had just signed away his soul, and her eyes really could be quite pretty when she looked at him with a mixture of desperation and desire, and so few women had ever given him the time of day, and the world was collapsing all around them both… they couldn't help but fall into each other's arms.

He used it to his advantage, of course. She would speak about Draco and what half-baked plan he had cocked up this time, and it would give him a chance to intercede. She would let things slip that Lucius had told her over the years that Severus had not been privy to.

There hadn't been many times together, and they certainly had not fallen in love, but there had been enough between them to sustain them through a very, very bleak period.

It ended the way it had began: suddenly and without a word passing between them. Lucius escape, and Narcissa returned to his side to continue to play the role of the Good Wife, and Severus was alone once again. And lonely.

And would likely stay that way forever.

* * *

><p>Hermione wiped the tears from her eyes as the sound of Ron's Apparition faded away.<p>

It had been both easier and harder than she'd ever thought possible to end things with him. He hadn't been that upset, not really. He understood. He accepted it with a quiet grace, a resignation, as if he'd expected it.

He knew her so well, he probably had.

He'd taken a lot of things well. Her inability to trust him after he left them on that horrible night in the tent. Her encounter with Harry. The fact that she couldn't see a future with him. That made it harder for her. If he'd yelled, screamed, pitched a fit, insulted her, she could handle that. She could understand that. Nodding his head, giving her a kiss, squeezing her hand and telling her that he understood and would always be there for her… that was too difficult to deal with. She couldn't. It was more than she thought she deserved from him.

She sat motionless in her living room, with one thought coursing through her mind.

_Now what?_

This wasn't the way things were supposed to turn out. She was supposed to obtain top NEWT marks, take the Ministry by storm, marry Ron, and live happily ever after. Hermione Granger had always followed her plans. She had always taken great pains to ensure that her plans had come to fruition.

Now… she was lost. She had to come up with a new plan.

What that would be, she did not yet know.

She hated not knowing.

* * *

><p>After six months he was beginning to tear his hair out, both literally and figuratively.<p>

He'd done everything he could to try to get through to these children so that they would at least interact with him. That was the bare minimum he wanted to accomplish—there was very little he could do if they refused to acknowledge or respond to him.

Severus was neither gentle nor patient by nature. He understood why people acted the way they did on an academic level—he never would have lasted five minutes as a spy otherwise—but failed to really understand it on an emotional, human level. So why he knew in theory why these children were being so bloody difficult, he found it more and more difficult to keep his frustration in check.

He valued ironclad control over himself and his emotions, and valued it highly in others as well. He had not been lying to Potter when he had told him that wearing one's heart on one's sleeve was nothing more than a weakness. It was more difficult than he ever admitted to himself to keep a rein on his fears, emotions, and frustrations. It had taken every ounce of control not to slap Draco Malfoy across the face that night after Slughorn's Christmas party. The boy's defiance had unnerved him. He had been reckless, and seemed to not appreciate that he was not merely playing with his own life, but that of his family and Severus himself. It had taken every ounce of strength and training to keep himself from betraying his complete and utter terror that the boy would continue to play with fire.

But this… this was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

As a teacher, he'd been through the standard training to spot signs of physical abuse, poor health, and parental neglect. It hadn't really been necessary for him, having grown up experiencing all of the above, but he'd gone through it all the same. He had rudimentary training about what to look for and what to do about the situation—namely, contact the authorities. When _you_ were the authorities, said training was not terribly helpful.

He'd sought any and all books on the subject, but the Wizarding World was surprisingly bereft of any sort of authority on the subject of abused and neglected children, let alone those suffering from war trauma. The usual ways of approaching them seemed to backfire. He had begun to read Muggle texts on the subject, but so far he'd been unable to find a way to implement the suggestions.

The children weren't making things any easier for him.

They weren't eating, they weren't sleeping, they weren't speaking, they weren't responding, they weren't interacting, they weren't developing, they weren't growing. They weren't doing anything but either sitting before him catatonically or screaming. As a result, Severus wasn't sleeping, was barely eating, and was chronically in pain between the headache between his eyes and the ulcer in his stomach.

He'd dealt with difficult children before, but _nothing_ like this. Nothing could have prepared him for how difficult it was. He was used to wasting his best efforts on idiot waifs who would never appreciate it. There was still fulfillment to be had. This? He was giving and giving and giving of himself—his time, his energy—to receive nothing in return but frustration and emptiness.

If one—just _one_—would show some improvement, it would be worth it.

He wasn't even teaching. He couldn't even get to that point. He was something between a social worker, a Healer, and a guardian.

The frustration of it all was so great that he still wasn't able to repair his Occlumency shields. Over half a year he'd lived without them. Everything—his emotions, his fears, his anxieties, his memories—was constantly bomboarding him. If he could shut it all out he might be able to focus on this. But dealing with all of his baggage, and all of theirs?

It was breaking him.

After everything he'd been through, everything he'd fought against, everything that had been hurled at him, he was just exhausted and broken.

What had he got himself into? He had only intended to provide care for two dozen or so war orphans. He found himself instead focusing on therapy and social services. There was no authority he could turn to on the subject—he _was_ the authority now. And he didn't like it.

He'd lived through hell and escaped death. Was this how he wanted to spend his second chance—fighting yet another uphill, endless, hopeless battle? Was this really how he wanted to spend his life?

Was it not time to finally do something for himself?

He looked around the cramped office where he was surrounded by towers of paper and parchment. Heard the sobs and the screams through the walls. Thought of the woman upstairs. He considered what he'd signed up for: attempting to teach and help those who would not—could not—listen; work in the shadows and for no appreciation; work for and fight against a sadistic personality who harmed innocents. It was agonizingly familiar. Only this time, he had an out. He could walk away if he wanted to. They'd be no worse off. As for him... he might not be worse off for it either.

He'd lived that life once. He wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to continue.

_But what would you do with yourself instead_, the voice asked. _Dungeons and darkness and thankless work are where you belong._

_Is that really where I belong_, he asked himself. _Or is that just where I've always been told to go?_

Before he could change his mind, he strode out of the office.

And didn't look back.

* * *

><p><em>Don't hate me! <em>

_And yes, the Narcissa thing was in the background of JTB the entire time. I so desperately wanted to include it somewhere, but never found the right place. Maybe this isn't the right place, but oh well. It needed to get out there._


	4. And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

_A thousand apologies for the delay. Life got incredibly (and unexpectedly) busy and I wasn't able to give this much of my attention until the last few days. Major angst ahead. Major "Just to Be" spoilers ahead. Major apologies and an explanation at the end._

_Enjoy and thank you for sticking with this :)_

* * *

><p>Ginny wiped the tears from her eyes as she approached the door. She hadn't wanted it to come to this. She hadn't wanted to involve anyone else, for her sake as much as Harry's. But things had got far worse than she'd imagined, and she couldn't do this alone anymore. She thought of calling on her own family to help, but they were still healing themselves. Things hadn't been quite the same since losing Fred. They probably never would be. It had forever changed the Weasley family dynamic. Still, if she called them, they would come. And that was the problem.<p>

Harry had no family of his own, and had been the eighth Weasley child for most of Ginny's memory. For them to come, to rush to his aid, to see him like this… it would destroy Harry more than the drugs or the drink ever could.

She couldn't do that to him. But she also couldn't let him go on like this.

So with one last ineffectual swipe at her tear-filled eyes, she opened the door to find her own face mirrored in that of her fiance's best friend. Hermione Granger.

They hadn't spoken much since Hermione and Ron had broken up. The break-up hadn't really surprised Ginny, but it hadn't left her unaffected. Add to that Harry's confession about his and Hermione's… liaison while alone in that tent and, well, this was a bit awkward. Still, if Hermione was willing to put all that aside to help Harry in his hour of greatest need, so was Ginny.

Ginny would tell Hermione enough. But not everything. People could handle the idea of Harry Potter drinking. The idea of Harry Potter drowning out the pain with hard drugs… that would stay private. Hermione being Hermione, she would likely figure that part out. But there was no need to dishonour them both by spelling it out for her.

Hermione followed Ginny silently through the corridor and up the stairs to the master bedroom at Grimmauld Place. They found Harry sitting on the edge of the bed, clothes rumpled, hair even messier than it normally was, head in his hands. Hermione cautiously approached him, as if he would attack her. She could smell the drink from even this distance. When she reached him, she knelt before him, cautiously lifting one hand and lightly touching his shoulder.

She burst into tears when he lifted his head. She could see the yellowed skin and bloodshot eyes. She could see the shame in his expression, and positively feel the terror radiating off of him. Without a word, she pulled him into her arms, and he fell to the floor. They clung to each other and just sobbed.

"Please," he choked. "Please don't hate me."

"Never, Harry Potter," Hermione said through her own sobs. "Never. I'm here for you. Ginny's here for you. We're all in this together."

"Never wanted," he whispered, "to disappoint you."

"You will never disappoint me, Harry." She rubbed soothing circles on his back. "Remember what you said to me? What brought me back from the edge?" She knew she wouldn't have to elaborate on what she was specifically talking about, and with Ginny standing near her, it probably wasn't a good idea to do so anyway. "That goes both ways, and it still applies: I'm not going anywhere. Ever."

Harry collapsed into even harder sobs as Hermione clung to him.

Ginny had been a bit scant on the details. Hermione guessed that it was more than drink that was causing Harry's problems, but for once in her life held her tongue and declined to ask any questions of them. She knew they wouldn't deny her answers, but she thought she at least owed them the illusion.

Taking him to St. Mungo's wasn't really an option—the headlines of the Boy Who Lived going into rehab would be too much for him to handle. Hermione doubted that the Wizarding world would handle it well, or him well. They all knew how public opinion could sway at the slightest push. At the same time, she didn't know how to help Harry. Wasn't sure if this was covered in any book. She wouldn't be able to study to prepare herself, and she had no choice but to perform perfectly. She wouldn't let her friend down. She would help him become the man—the husband and father—she knew he wanted to be.

"Come on," she said, helping him up. She gestured for Ginny to come over.

"Please," he whispered to Ginny, "don't tell Ron. Or your mum. Or your dad. Or…"

"Hush," Ginny said. "This doesn't leave this room."

"We're all in this together," Hermione said. "We won't let you down."

She smiled as she said it, but had a feeling that this would be a difficult promise to keep. She also knew it would take a very, very long time to accomplish anything. And, deep down, she knew that Harry possibly would never overcome it.

* * *

><p><em>Coward.<em>

Severus jerked awake as the voice taunted him. His sleep had been irregular, light, and tormented.

He had been surprised to realise that less than a day had passed since walking out. It already felt like a lifetime.

He rubbed his hands along his sweat-soaked face and through his cruelly short hair, feeling as if something was missing after the strands slipped through his fingers after only an inch or so. He knew he could magically regrow it in a moment if he chose. He chose not to. He was already hiding. It wouldn't do to add a layer.

Severus sat up in bed, the thin blanket sliding down to settle over his thin hips.

_Coward._

He shook his head. He hadn't fled out of cowardice. It had been out of self-preservation. Severus would die before admitting it, but he was an emotional man. He felt things, and felt them deeply: pain, disappointment, anger, resentment, _fear_. On the rare occasions fate had blessed him, he had also known sporadic periods of great joy and love. But he had learned early on in life that the exquisite pleasure of good feelings were not enough to weather the crushing pain of bad ones. In his life, the bad had far outnumbered the good.

He hadn't been lying when he'd told Potter, all those years ago, that people who wear their hearts on their sleeves and indulge their feelings were weak. It was a weakness, to indulge in such things. It left him quivering and exposed.

So he had mastered his feelings the same way he had mastered potions. Occlumency. It had been a godsend. Had allowed him to tamp down on the maelstrom that was his heart and allow him to do what was Necessary.

Before, it had been necessary. Now, it was essential. He still hadn't re-formed the shields. He'd made some progress, but not nearly enough. The pain he'd seen down there, in there… it had been far too much to stomach.

It had been far too much to do alone.

_Coward._

He shook his head again. Severus never liked to leave a project unfinished, and never accepted anything less than perfection. He never started something unless he knew he could do it well. This one had been a mistake to undertake. In his current state, he had no hope of finishing it. Or helping them. Really, it was better for all involved.

_Coward._

He let out a growl of frustration and began pacing the room, the cold of the floor biting his bare feet. He'd been given an impossible second chance, surviving an attack that should not have been survived. The only person besides Harry bloody Potter to survive after the Dark Lord had decided that he should die. He didn't want to waste his time, didn't want to live in service to others, didn't want to climb the fucking hill over and over for all eternity.

_You can't always get what you want._

He snorted. Truer words had never been spoken. Wizarding rock had nothing on the Stones, and never would. Absently, he began humming the rest of the song to himself, both to drown out the voice that had been taunting him and to calm himself down. Absent Occlumency, it was the only thing that usually worked.

"But if you try sometimes, you just might find… you get what you need."

He needed so many things: stability. Peace. A purpose. Love. Things he didn't deserve and would never have anyway. But right now, he needed to get out. Much as he wanted to hide, he felt trapped. He'd always been able to hide in plain sight. Tonight, he would do that again.

* * *

><p>Ron sat staring at the wall of his room at the Burrow. The house was quiet. It had never been quiet. Ramshackle, dirty, clean, crowded, busy, and hidden. But never, ever quiet.<p>

It was quiet all the time these days.

Life would probably never be the same in this house. It would always be short one person. The fact that his mum hadn't gone completely mental when Ginny announced she and Harry were moving in together had confirmed that life, as he knew it, and his family, as he had known it, would never be the same.

Mum wasn't even thinking about their upcoming wedding. Ginny said it would be small, probably just the family and Hermione in the garden.

_Hermione_.

Boy, hadn't he cocked that one up right good. Cocked up things with Harry, too. One bloody mistake made in the heat of the moment under an unthinkable amount of stress had cost him his two best friends.

He hadn't lost Harry, not really. But his best mate had been distant, hidden. Ginny came over to the house without him more often than not. He suspected Harry was not only upset about the fact that things had broken down with Hermione, but probably also felt a little uncomfortable around him. He'd walked away from them in that tent. He'd left them to die. He hadn't known he had the instrument in his pocket to return, and he'd done it anyway. He supposed he deserved it.

All actions have consequences. He supposed this would be his.

He wouldn't lose Harry. Harry would be his brother-in-law someday; they'd always have that connection, regardless of whatever else happened. And they'd reconcile, as they always did. But deep down, Ron knew that things would never be quite the same again.

And Hermione… well, he really didn't want to lose her in his life. He loved her, and always would love her. He would never forgive himself for letting her go. But he also knew that he couldn't try to win her back. She had made her decision. He knew she had made the right one. She always had. In the tent, she had chosen correctly, and he had chosen incorrectly. He had been forgiven, but it would never be forgotten.

He thought of going down to the kitchen for a nightcap. But the thought of seeing the clock with only eight hands bearing the faces of eight Weasleys on it…

Ron suppressed a lump in his throat. _Not tonight._

* * *

><p>"<em>I have to go back, haven't I?"<em>

He'd muttered the words as his body had lay dying in the boathouse, as his mind had struggled desperately to preserve itself while the blood flowed freely. He'd sworn he'd seen Lily as he'd faded into the coma that would save his mind, his memories, and his life. It hadn't been a true vision, not like the kind Potter had reportedly seen of Dumbledore. It had been fleeting, really. The thin face. The soft hair. Those _eyes_. He'd reached out to touch her, just once, like he had during that glorious afternoon in the Room of Requirement. But she'd pulled back and shaken her head.

Wherever he was, he wasn't staying. Wherever she was, he wasn't going with her.

"I have to go back, haven't I?" he'd asked sadly.

Lily had only nodded. The next thing Severus knew, he was lying on the floor of the boathouse, the blood from his neck congealing beneath his torso on the cold stone floor. Alone.

It probably had been a hallucination, but Severus really, really wanted to believe it had been real.

Now the words rushed back to him as he sat here on his bed, leaning against the window. A long walk down Cokeworth High Street had done nothing to clear his head. Neither had a long walk along the dirty canal. Only one thing would settle his mind.

"I have to go back," he whispered out loud. "Haven't I?"

He didn't want to. It wasn't the life he wanted for himself. It wasn't peaceful, or progressive, or practical, or anything else. It wasn't something he was any good at doing, or anything he would hope to succeed at doing, mostly because there was no real goal. What was his purpose there? Get them ready for Hogwarts? Adulthood? To be able to interact with another human being without losing it?

Diving into a project without a clear goal in mind was never a good idea.

But the guilt was there, eating away at him, and it hadn't even been a full day. It wouldn't go away, it would keep taunting him. Gnawing at him. Eating away at him. And that damn voice would not leave it be. He knew it. Every choice he made was the wrong one, according to that terrible voice. No matter what it was, it would be wrong, and it would destroy him.

He might as well suffer through that for doing the right thing.

He leaned against the dirty window and caught a rare glimpse of the stars through the clouds. Absently, he placed his palm on the glass.

* * *

><p>Hermione accepted Ginny's offer to stay in a guest room on the first floor. She hadn't wanted to; she'd wanted to give them their privacy, and give herself some space. But Ginny had offered, and wouldn't have done unless she truly thought it was best, so Hermione had accepted.<p>

She wiped her face and tried to keep her sobs silent. It broke her heart to see Harry this way. There really wasn't anything she could do to make him stop. There was no potion or charm to cure an addiction. She could only hope that her presence would make him more willing to work with Ginny to stop.

She leaned against the window and looked down at the courtyard below. It was deserted, and the fog was creeping in like long, skinny fingers across the cobblestone. It wasn't much of a view, but she could make out the outlines of the trees and buildings. She caught a glimpse of some stars.

Absently, she placed her palm on the glass.

* * *

><p>When he returned, it was as if he'd never left. No one seemed to notice or care.<p>

He never saw the Rosiers with their lockets. The lockets were gone. Taken.

He noticed. He cared.

* * *

><p>When he came out of the fog of drink and drug that had been his mind for the past months, he felt the excruciating pain of it all. Without substances to numb the memories, it was all too much.<p>

But he welcomed it. It was better this way. Even if it felt much worse.

* * *

><p>When she walked into the Ministry to perform the same rote tasks over and over, she knew that it was beneath her capabilities. But a routine made her feel like she was moving on. If she was performing mundane tasks, life was getting back to normal. So she continued.<p>

* * *

><p>The first time one of the children met his eye, his own eyes softened.<p>

The first time one of them spoke to him, he had been lost for words.

The first time one smiled at him, he wanted to cry.

The more he felt, the more he rebuilt his tattered shields. But he didn't use them very often.

* * *

><p>When he held his bride in his arms, skin to skin, eye to eye, heart to heart, he thanked God that he'd been given yet another chance at life.<p>

He'd received one as an infant.

He'd received another as a teenager.

He'd received yet another from her.

He had a feeling he would not receive another if he needed it. He resolved to not need it.

* * *

><p>She supposed this was life now. A broken women with a broken heart in a broken world.<p>

She focused on her work. Her work had always saved her in the past, had always given her meaning. Whether depressed or angry or desperately lonely, the Work had always given her salvation. Had given her life meaning. Had dulled the pain.

So she worked. She'd forgotten how to play.

* * *

><p>They got together every so often, the Golden Trio. The Masters of Death.<p>

They would always be friends, always be family. Just not quite the way they had been before.

He rubbed his eyes. Months had passed. It was always two steps forward, one step back.

But at least he was moving forward this time.

One day one of them crawled into his lap. And just stayed there. Just sat there, resting against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart.

One of them trusted him.

So he stayed. And would continue to stay, as long as it took. And he would work. Toward what goal? He could not say.

Perhaps it was that peace that he craved so badly. If they found it, he could find it, too. It was a low bar. Just to sleep through the night. Just to trust others. Just to walk in the world without fear. Just to be.

* * *

><p><em>According to Pottermore, Cokeworth is the name of Petunia and Lily's hometown, which also makes it Severus's hometown.<em>

_Between some overseas travel and starting a new job, I didn't have much time to work on this. I had finished a draft that involved Severus walking through Knockturn Alley, seeing a brothel, seeing a former student in there, and resolving to do something about it. But it didn't quite work right. "Of course it isn't working," Severus sneered at me. "That's not how it happened. You gave me enough stupid epiphanies in 'JTB,' the last thing I need is another one. You won't leave my character much room to grow in JTB if it happens here. Not everything comes to me as a realization, you know. I am perfectly capable of doing the right thing." "Then how did you change your mind?" I asked. He didn't answer me. He didn't answer me for WEEKS. Finally, he enlightened me: "I came to my senses and realized it was the right thing to do. I'm not a monster; I didn't stay away for long." "Guilt, that's it?" He nodded. "That's not very dramatic!" I said. "No, but it's real," he said. I whined. He just gave me the Standard Issue Glare and I gave in. He was right: it worked better this way. Tosser. So when you're hurling rocks at me for the delay, throw a couple tomatoes at my Hero too. Diva wouldn't cooperate. _


End file.
